


AFTER HOURS

by Jadenite



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gil Arroyo Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Robbery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29150613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadenite/pseuds/Jadenite
Summary: Detective Gil Arroyo wanted to go home and sleep for a week. Maybe two. But the his plans for sleep are thrown out the window when he's robbed at gun point by two criminals.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	AFTER HOURS

**_THEN_ **

Gil Arroyo was so goddamn tired that he could barely keep his eyes open, with one hand on the wheel he used the other to scrub his face. God did he feel his years; tailing suspects side by side with JT, Powell, and Bright day in and day out left him with no allusions. The silver in his hair said he wasn’t the young man he used to be, and the aches in his bones _agree_. But that just meant he had to play it smart.

Easy enough, right. So long as he could out fox the bad guy he could still do his job and do it well. Besides, it wasn’t like he needed a walker to get around, he could clear the corners of a room with the best of them and had a hefty right-hook. But, maybe, running on fumes like this right now wasn’t so smart. Hell, driving a rental was one of the top 10 things he should _not_ be doing the way he felt right; worn out, and dog tired right down to his very bones. He knew he shouldn’t, it wasn’t the _smart_ thing to do, but just this once Gil pushed through it. 

He _shouldn’t_ \-- but he would. This was exactly the kind of stunt he'd bust Bight’s balls for doing but there was no one around to call him on it. It’d be fine, an hour tops, and he’d be in the clear. 

Gil kept his eyes peeled for his stop, it would be coming up soon enough. 

_Get to the bank, get home._ He could do it -- after all what was another thirty minutes after the long-ass days he’d had. His jaw cracked on a yawn belying his certainty but he kept to his plan. It was simple enough that Gil didn’t see the harm. He wasn’t a road hazard yet. Past experience said he had at least another hour in him before the last of his adrenaline crashed. And it would inevitably crash. It would not be pretty either. Not even Bright and Powell would be looking so hot without some proper sleep in them after this one. 

It hadn’t been hard to spot the purple bruises under their eyes and the rundown look they’d all had in common when they finally closed the case. They had the weekend to themselves, at least, unless a call came in that required the special talents of their golden boy, Bright. Gil was crossing his fingers and praying that they got the whole weekend to rest up. They needed -- hell _he_ needed it to. He _needed_ a recharge. And the kid _always_ looked like he could use a few more hours to sleep. Gil tightened his grip at 10 and 2 on the wheel. 

Dreams were rarely kind to Malcolm Bright and it showed, wearing him down in increments. Gil hated to see it but knew there was nothing he could do about it. At the end of the day Malcolm was a grown man, he’d sort himself out, take his meds, and show up for the next murder case with the new coin shininess that made half the precinct uncomfortable. 

Speaking of rest. Gil rubbed at his eyes, fighting off the drowsiness clinging to his back like a spider-monkey. He was having some serious second thoughts about not just going home but set them aside out of sheer tenacity. He was halfway there. Just a little longer and he’d be in the clear. He’d spend the next 24 hours sleeping it off under a pile of heavy blankets and with a soft pillow under his head. If he were particularly lucky he’d have a chance to toe off his boots and wiggled out of his sweater before his body shut down on him and he collapsed face down on his bed. _Just a little longer._ All he had to do was put this damn check into his bank account. Then he could check out for a long and much needed _siesta_. 

He and his team had earned their keep with the shit that happened on the job and he didn’t plan on just giving it up to some Joebob with a gun looking for an easy mark. Knowing the statistics on mugging Gil didn’t like carrying this much on his person even if it was stashed in a hidden seam of his jacket. He’d been jumped on the street enough times that he found the hidden compartment a practical asset, and if it made him feel like a less British _James Bond_ then no one but him ever needed to know. Well, Powell suspected, bless her, but she’d never rat.

Gil yawned, slanting a look at the time. 6:00 P.M. An hour left to get in, get out, and haul his tired ass back home where he could crash in peace on his very comfortable, and very _large_ bed. It was the one extravagance he afforded himself -- a soft place to land after the day was done. Just thinking of crawling under the covers made him wish he had forgone tonight's bank trip. 

_Too late now, I’m already here._ He squinted against the headlights of an asshole that hadn’t turned off the blinders and parked. Gil decided to take a moment to rest his eyes before getting out of the car. He knew he shouldn't, but his thinking was muddled by exhaustion. The Bordell Case had taxed his body to its limit. It had been 48 not-so-fun-filled hours of back-alley chases, late-night tailing, and the mother of all adrenaline explosions when Bright did something spectacularly _Brightish_. Gil suppressed a groan just thinking about Malcolm. With any luck the kid was in bed, dreaming ordinary dreams. Whatever the hell _that_ was.

Gil inhaled sharply, remembering just how close he’d come to losing Malcolm. _To damn close._ The kid neatly solved the case with a perfect red bow _and_ came within an inch of giving him a heart attack within the same hour. 

All as per usual when it came to Malcolm Bright. Just thinking of the trouble the kid got into made his muscles tense up and his heart squeeze painfully. Kid was a trouble magnet. Thinking about his day was not conducive to shoring up the last dregs of his energy; thinking about Bright was… _problematic_ at best. He let his mind blank out listening to the white noise of static on the radio. It took a few minutes to word, but it did soon enough. JT said it was weird, but it _helped_. So he did it, and planned to keep on doing it. There were worse coping mechanisms than a little white noise to numb the brain after a hard case. It was just noise, there was nothing there to listen to, or try to make sense of, which let his brain shut off, tuning it, and everything else _out_. Gil drifted between waking and sleeping, giving himself a moment to recharge before he had to go out and interact with people on a barely operating brain. _Okay, time to get a move on._ He’d been here too long already. If he didn’t start _getting_ the next person he saw would be the officer checking on the suspicious car parked around the corner from the _Bank of America_. It took him longer than he cared to admit to pry his eyes open. They felt like they had heavy weights attached.

Gil opened his eyes and cursed when he realized what the time was. 7:00 P.M. He’d lost a whole damn hour, and he felt like the walking dead. The night just kept getting better and better.

“Dammit,” he grunted, leaning his head against the headrest. The bank would close any second now and the street was a lot emptier than it had been an hour ago. Which made it a whole lot less _safe_. He was a detective, not stupid. He didn’t want trouble tonight and this was not the nicer side of town, but it had been the quickest stop. _Should have just gone home, dummy._ Gil shoved the car door open and got out waiting for the soft _beep_ that assured him it was locked against burglars and opportunist thieves before walking away.

Gil had his hands tucked into his coat pocket and his head ducked against the wind as he rounded the corner. If he had been more awake he would have seen the two men flanking him, tall dark shadows that closed in quicker than he could react to. 

Gil did a sluggish inventory: phone in the car, watch on his wrist, and the check he needed to keep the fucking roof over his head was in his jacket. Well, it looked like the kids shit luck was rubbing off on the rest of them. 

Gil heaved a careworn sigh. No, that wasn’t fair. This was the infamous city that never slept, muggings happened. It was just a run of the mill bad luck thing that happened to everyone. He really was too damn tired for this shit. He just wanted to sleep, and a bed. At this point a bed was optional, because right now any flat surface was going to start looking far too good. But he clearly wasn’t getting what he wanted tonight. No sleep for the wicked and all that jazz. 

He felt the cold barrel of a gun tapped against his skull and froze. 

“Hands up, city boy!” the voice at his back ordered. 

Gil grimaced at the nickname and became very still, making sure he did nothing to warrant suspicion from the mugger with the gun pressed to the back of his head. If the trigger went off he’d have his brains sloped all over the sidewalk. Preferring to keep his brain matter in his head the detective did what he was told and put his hands in the air.

Best case, they took his wallet, his watch, and left him the keys so he could get home. Hell, he might not even call it in until tomorrow. “Okay, you got me, take it easy guys. My wallet is in my left front pocket.”

He could hear them shuffling at his back. There were two men. There was the man holding the gun and the one giving him a quick but thorough pat down in his search for valuables. Looking for the usual suspects: expensive jewelry, phones, watches, and wallets. Gil only had one of those items on him. It was a cheap leather strap timepiece he’d had for five years. It wasn’t much, but it did its job. 

Gil winced as the watch was yanked off of his wrist taking a few wrist hairs along the way. He was sad to see it go but not dumb enough to pull something with the barrel of a .3mm parting the hair on the back of his head.

Trying to hurry them along, Gil cleared his throat. “Look, that’s everything I have on me.”

“Liar,” the man who had patted him down snorted. “Look what we have here!” that same man exclaimed, reaching around to free Gil’s badge from its belt clip. The detective's heart sank to his feet as the tension in the air kicked up a notch. It was always a toss up whether being in law enforcement was help or a hindrance in these kinds of situations on the streets. He was thinking big damn _hindrance_ tonight. 

“We caught ourselves a _pig_.”

_Well, fuck wasn’t this just great._ Gils plan for getting home was getting farther and farther away and all he could do was stand there and watch it vanish over some distant horizon. Gil remained stock still, his eyes darting to his periphery checking to see if it was in fact just two men that had jumped him. The run of bad luck he’d been having he’d expected a whole militia to pop out of the dark. But they didn’t. It was just the gunman and the man holding his badge like it was some kind of trophy.

Gil struggled to keep calm and level headed. On a normal day it wouldn’t be so hard but this wasn’t a normal day. He could barely run two words together, his tongue felt heavy, and if he didn’t focus he was going to fall asleep on his feet. He cleared his throat to get their attention. 

“Listen up, it’s been a hell of a day. All I want is to go home, okay. One time offer boys, how about I go my way and you go yours, huh? No harm, no foul.”

He held his breath, sweat beading on his brow, and collecting under his blue turtleneck, as he waited. _C’mon it’s a good offer. Take it._

“And I want to win the lottery but I don’t suppose you’ve got the winning ticket in your pocket, do you?” the man with his badge smirked, sliding his hand into Gil’s back pocket. “Nope, no ticket. Bit of a tight fit there.”

Gil held still, squashing the unease that squirmed in his gut at the unnecessary touching. It felt like the man had been copping a feel. He didn’t bother questioning why. He knew why creeps like this did it; a power trip plain and simple. He pretended it didn’t get under his skin, the way the man had grabbed his ass while checking his back pocket. He became increasingly uncomfortable with the unfolding situation and he suspected it had something to do with the way one of the men was looking at him. He knew that look all too well; a predator's gleam and the sharp, cutting slash of a smile that showed too many teeth. His night had taken a spectacularly bad turn and Gil knew it.

“Well, I suppose you could ask really nicely, pig, and we’ll decide if we want to let you crawl on home.”

Gil’s jaw clenched, his hands automatically closing into a fist at the repeated insults. All he had wanted to do was a quick stop at the bank and to go home but the universe had decided to shit on that plan, hadn’t it? If this went down badly no one was going to think twice about where he was until Monday. _Shit, shit, shit._ His adrenaline spiked – again -- under threat of death but Gil knew it would not last indefinitely; eventually his body would cave to necessity. He was not Superman and he needed to fucking _sleep_. 

“Hey, are we boring you, old man?” the man with the gun asked, flicking his ear. “I think we’re boring him, Dirk.”

“Shit man, no names!” the other man, who he now knew to be Dirk, grunted. “You _wanna_ end up sharing a cell? Shit man, no names.”

Gil reined in his temper with years of practice; it was a toss up deciding which insult stung deeper, _‘pig’_ or _‘old man.’_ Fine, maybe he wasn’t exactly a _Spring Chicken_ anymore but he wasn’t ready to be put to pasture either. His old academy instructor's voice echoed in his head like it had been yesterday and not too many years ago to count. ‘ _Keep it together Arroyo, if all you got is a clear head then USE it.’_

There wasn’t much to work with -- he’d been blindsided here. Dirk had issues with authority, clearly. And he had some big time issues with law enforcement in particular. _Lucky me._ The gunman was following Dirk's lead, and he wasn’t exactly falling all over himself to thank the Police Department for keeping the streets safe from criminals. So that banished any hopes for assistance from that corner. They weren’t organized crime; if they were he'd already be dead. So that was good. Petty theft and breaking and entering seemed more like their game. It was still a 50/50 toss up about what happened next. But between the looking and the touching Gil didn’t think he was going to like it. At this stage all he could do was play it by ear, and wait. 

He had nothing else of value on his person that they could take so he kept his hands raised and waited to see how the dice fell. Either they would part ways now and he’d call in to report a robbery or they _wouldn’t_ leave and he’d end up with a bullet hole permanently parting the hair on the back of his head. Or...well, it was too soon to say for sure. But there was another option that would be about as much fun as getting shot.

“We can just stand around out here, c’mon, walk,” the man with the gun said to his partner and shoved him towards an alley with a hand on his shoulder. Gil complied with their demands. He was out-manned and out-maneuvered in this situation. 

The streets were empty of bystanders and witnesses, which were all good things for lowering the likeliness of civilian casualty but really, really not good for his odds. The two men led him into a back alley that stank of urine and sewage and the view of the street was conveniently blocked by a dumpster. It looked like every other murder scene he and his team had investigated just in the last week. Dead or not dead the idea of being left face down in tepid urine and waste made his gorge rise. The smell alone was sickening. What a great place they had picked out for this little showdown, the only thing the alley didn’t have was a crashed out homeless person or a junkie buzzed off his head.

Gil kept his head the same as he’d been trained in the academy. Talking was all he _could_ do right now. “Assaulting a NYPD Officer comes with a 5 to ten year stint behind bars. Take a moment to think about what you’re doing.”

“I've thought about it, and I wanna see if you Police Boys bleed red, or blue, don’t you?" Dirk asked, shooting the other criminal a knowing look. “You wanna see if he bleeds the same as us don’t you?” he reiterated.

The man holding the gun shrugged. Gil felt the minuscule shift in the other man’s posture through the .3 mm barrel still pressed hard against the back of his head.

Dirk shoved Gil against the wall, brick scraping his back as he was forced to turn and face them. They clearly weren’t the brightest bulbs in the closet and Gil knew that that could get him shot as easily as a cool customer. They weren’t even wearing masks, making this a crime of opportunity without any real thought put into it. It had been sheer dumb luck them choosing to jump him tonight. Still. No masks -- which meant he’d seen their faces. 

Gil could see it the moment they both realized this fact.

“You always said you wanted to stick it to _The Man_ ,” Dirk laughed, shooting Gil a speculative look, as he looked him over from head to toe with a low whistle. “Here’s a chance to put your money where your mouth is.”

The man with the gun shot his partner a steely glare.

“What are you talking about? He’s a dude!”

Gil swallowed, his throat constricting as he realized the threat he was facing had shifted unexpectedly. He paused to consider if claiming he had a STD would work for or against his position. _If_ they believed him they might just shoot him. 

If they _didn’t_ …would a bullet in the brain really be preferable? The vision of Malcolm, Dani, and JT standing over yet another grave made him think twice. He couldn’t do that, not to them. Could he? No. Gil shook his head, putting it out of his mind. He didn’t have a death wish either. He’d seen and survived plenty of awful shit on the job. He would damn well survive _this – if_ he had to.

He wanted a way out of the situation but ideas were not forthcoming. His brain was too slow, too sluggish to scramble anything of use together. He knew there were things he could _do_ , things he could _say_ , but they slipped from grasp like the tiny silver fish he used to catch from the ponds as a kid. He could barely think beyond the stench plugging up his nose and making his eyes water and the sluggish drowsiness that was slowing him down as effectively as popping an _Ambien_. Gil focused on breathing to calm the spike of panic that made sweat bead on his forehead. This was one situation he didn’t know how to talk his way out of -- they didn’t teach this at the academy. 

Dirk laughed, as if mugging an NYPD Officer had become the highlight of his night. “Shit, fucking a man isn’t much different than a tight cunt.”

“I don’t know about this, let's just take the wallet and get out of here, he said 5 to 10 years, shit, I don’t want that.”

“Fine, be a pussy, leave if that’s what you want. No one said you got to stay,” Dirk laughed, stepping close behind Gil, his hand fumbling at the button to his pants. Gil didn’t like it at all, the hands crawling on his body, groping through his clothes, and the hot breath at his back. He wanted to fight it but the glint of light bouncing off of the barrel of the gun was his constant reminded that he was stuck. Dirk leaned in close, and Gil caught the pungent scent of ozone and pitch when he spoke.

“A hole is a hole.”

Gil did what he always did when physical force couldn’t win the day, he profiled. It kept his brain busy not thinking about the hand touching his limp dick or the thick fingers digging into the meat of his ass. He decided to call the man with the gun, _Gun_. It was short and descriptive. It was because of Gun that he was shit out of options. The man feeling him up was taller than him and physically fit, the black sweater didn’t hide the telltale sign of muscle born of hard labor. A construction worker would fit. He didn’t sound like a New Yorker; Gil suspected he was from out of state, somewhere rural. Gil remembered that the man with the gun had called him a _city boy_ , which indicated he didn’t consider the metropolitan setting to be home.

“You can have the second ride,” Dirk chuckled, rubbing his hands down Gil’s flank. If the other man said anything Gil didn’t hear it. He was pressed flat against the brick, rough edges scraping his cheek as he struggled. As if there was even anywhere to go. There wasn’t, there were the chipped red bricks in his face and the man at his back, a steely grip fastened to his waist pinning him in place. He wasn’t sure he could have won a fight anyhow. 

He hadn’t been feeling too hot _before_ the mugging and face full of brick. He had a red stripe across his cheekbone that was going to require a story on Monday. 

And then, of course, there was the man with the gun. “You fight, you die, simple as that. _I_ have the gun, remember that.”

Dirk suddenly jabbed his thumb inside up to the second knuckle. Gil yelped, muscles tightening up around the intrusion, which only made Dirk snigger. 

A gray fog descended over Gil’s mind as that same finger wriggled and twisted hard, he felt skin give and tear and bleed. _God, it hurts._ Gil wanted it to stop, but he didn’t want to die. He wanted to fight, to lash out, but he couldn't with the looming threat of the gun.

Dirk paused, his finger still inside Gil. Dirk twisted his finger around as he spoke, and Gil struggled not to cry out at it was shoved deeper inside his body. “Ass isn’t much different to cunt, okay, just _tighter_ to fuck. We’ll make this little piggy squeal.”

Gil held still and let it happen, though it went against every fiber of his being to do so. He had no choice, that’s what this was. _Rape._ A destructive act of violation against a person's will. Gil clenched his teeth, with all the victims he’d interviewed as a rookie in the department he never thought he’d end up on this side of the equation. 

“There is still time to walk away, you don’t have to do this." He was desperate and it bled through into his voice.

Dirk picked up on that desperation and chuckled, hot breath trailing against Gil’s neck. He crooked his finger, and Gil shuddered hard.

“Nah, I think I really wanna do you, police man. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it. What do you think, you ever had dick shoved up your ass?” Dirk asked.

Jaw clenched, Gil remained silent.

Dirk snarled, yanking Gil’s head back with a tight grip in his hair. “Answer when I speak or I’ll make you kneel in the piss and shit while I fuck you like a bitch.”

Gil weighed his choices, staying silent and preserving his pride but risking the real probability of follow through on the threat. Or he could answer the question. Gil answered. He was fucked either way and he knew it.

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I have never been fucked, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” Gil snapped, his own temper flaring hot and dangerous.

Dirk laughed, low and reedy, his greedy fingers prying inside Gil’s body in sharp little jabs that had Gil gasping and wincing, his breathing hitching and turning into muted curses with each thrust. “Virgin ass, well, I’ll be sure to give you a night to _remember_.”

Gil tamped down on the anger building up inside with a force of will. He could be angry after. But not right now. It wouldn’t help. _Oh God, it wouldn’t help._ _Just breath. It will be all over soon._ Gil focused on lasting through the next ten minutes, and ten that followed after. His hands clenched into fists but remained pressed into the brick. Useless and helpless and so afraid that he was shaking from the force of it.

Gun shuffled in the background. “Would you just fuck him already.”

“Hurry? Nah, man, I’m gonna take my sweet time,” Dirk said, shoving his own pants down to mid-thigh. “I’m gonna make ‘em beg before I finish.”

Gil froze up, all thought just frittered right out of his head. Cold dread spread through him as his pants and boxers were forced all the way down his hips, pooling in the disgusting liquids splattering the dark alley. The air was icy cold on his exposed skin and Gil shivered.

He waited, wanting it done and over with so he could carry on with picking up the pieces after. So he could go home and sleep for a week. Maybe two with the way his night was going.

He had a gun to the back of his head and a man with a clear and evident arousal pressed against the back of his exposed ass. He was sore already from rough, stabbing fingers. What the fuck was he supposed to do? What could he do, realistically? Fight, maybe. But he’d die.

Bullets at close range didn’t miss. 

Gil could hear Dirk spitting on his hand and that slow creeping dread flooded over him in a rush of ice. His throat constricted, panic squeezing at his chest. This was it and there was no going back -- no escape. Dirk was going to fuck him and then _Gun_ was going to do it.Dirk spat on Gil’s lower back; slicking his fingers in the mess stuck to Gil as he rubbed saliva in his hole.

“Tell me if it _hurts_ ,” Dirk whispered as he lined up and pushed his dick inside. Gil cried out, a mangled half-scream. A brief burst of sound was all that escaped before a hand clamped down over his mouth. _It hurt. It hurt so damn much._ He tried to shove Dirk off, away from him, but he couldn’t. He forgot about the gun, about why he didn’t want to die. All that he cared about when the pain kicked in was getting the man off of his back. But struggling only lodged the man deeper, spreading Gil agonizingly wide around his dick. 

Dirk set a brutal pace slamming Gil’s body into the brick with the force of his thrusts. Dirk didn’t last long but that didn’t matter. Time ticked by in slow increments as Gil’s world narrowed to the hands bruising tight at his hips and the sharp tearing pain inside. It turned out that spit and blood didn’t do shit for easing the way. 

It hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced. Intense pain radiates down his spine as Dirk fucked into his ass, grinding and grunting as he sought his release. Dirk was neither slow nor careful and each thrust felt like a jab splitting him in two. The hand over his mouth had migrated to his shoulder, an impressive weight that ground him into the brick, even as the other remained at his waist. 

“Fuck, that’s tight,” Dirk grunted, working his dick in as deep as he could, deeper with each thrust of his hips. “You really haven’t had dick before, have you, police man.”

Gil tuned out his words the best he could and focused on his breathing. _In. Out. In. Out._ Relaxing wasn’t possible. Not when it hurt this much. But trying allowed him a focal point to pin his thoughts on. Gil could almost feel bruises forming -- some would be outwardly visible, some would not. After a while he distantly realized he was _begging_ , his voice wet and half-incoherent with tears.

_“Don’t -- please don’t,”_ he said, and _‘no,’_ over and over again until it wasn’t even a word. Dirk ignored him, egged on by his begging.

“Stop, stop,” he said, trying to buck him off his back, but as with everything else he’d tried tonight it didn’t work. His words just became noise to drown out the grunts and meaty slap of skin as he was repeatedly shoved into the wall, held up by knees that were threatening to give out. 

Dirk was talking and laughing behind Gil, his voice breathy as he fucked into him. “You’ll always _remember_ this,” he said, biting down on his shoulder. “You’ll always remember _me_ ,” he muttered, his mouth curved in a sharp, cruel smile. 

“And your first real fuck.”

He shifted his angle and Gil’s face twisted in pain. _Just breath, just breath._ Everything hurt, even just dragging lungfuls of air in through his nose. Gil inhaled sharply, unwillingly dragging in the scent of pitch, cigarettes, and piss.

“A hole is a hole,” Dirk kept repeating under his breath. Gil idly wondered whose benefit that was for. 

Had this guy been some closeted kid once upon a time? Was it just about him liking dick and needing a macho bullshit excuse to touch a man? Or did he just want to get a leg over The Man? Gil closed his eyes, shutting down his emotions. He didn’t care. He didn’t give a rat’s ass _why_. He hurt and he _wanted_ it over. He _wanted_ to limp home tired, sore, and bleeding to patch up the damage and sleep for a week. Maybe when he woke it would be somehow different and he could forget the smell or urine, shit, and the heavy musk of sex. 

“Fuck!” Dirk exclaimed, as he fucked into Gil. He was becoming more erratic as he reached his climax.

Gil grit his teeth against the sounds trying to crawl up his throat, terrible broken, sounds. He bit down on his lip, wet lines of red dripping down his chin as he did so. It did little good, in the end. He cried out when with a final, brutal, thrust, Dirk pinned his hips against rough brick, which scraped painfully against his limp erection, and came spilling hot inside him. Gil curled his lip in disgust, he wanted to be sick at the feel of semen slick on his thighs, but he swallowed it down. The sick would only end up down _his_ front. There were enough unpleasant smells here, he didn’t need to add to the pungent aroma. 

Breathing hard Dirk held still for a minute, regaining his composure as he wiped the sweat from his bow. Dirk leaned close, fetid breath brushing hot and foul against his cheek. “Thanks for the ride, police man.”

“So, you up next, or what?” Dirk asked the other criminal as he stepped away from Gil. For his part Gil had to lock his knees to keep them from dropping him into the stinking alley. He understood Malcolm’s tremoring better now -- he was shaking all over and he couldn’t stop it. 

Gil wanted to scream in frustration when Gun stepped forward. Dirk had the gun now, the dick pressed against his ass was different but the situation was unchanged, a fact that Dirk merrily reminded him of but edging close, the gun tapping against the side of his forehead. 

“You fight, you die. Nod if you hear me, yeah? What with you having had such a _long_ day and all I wanna make sure we understand one another.”

Gil’s head dipped in the barest ghost of a nod, but it was enough to satisfy Dirk who leered appreciatively for a moment before stepping back out of the way, gun still fixed on Gil’s head. “Well, okay then, he’s all yours, man.”

He _felt_ it, piercing, and unpleasant, when Gun lined up and thrust inside all the way in on hard thrust; but he wasn’t wholly present either. Gil drifted, taking stock of the damage, the blood, the cuts, and bruises, the loud slap of balls against thighs, and the occasional tire splash of water as cars drove past, but he wasn’t _there_. A veil dropped down as numbness set up shop and Gil opened the fucking door and set the table for that welcome reprieve. He couldn’t _stop_ it, but he could do this, and let himself fall into the softness of the white noise in his head and tuned out everything _else_. It worked, too. His weird white noise, tune out the whole world shtick, _helped._ Gil was aware of what happened to and around him, there was no escaping that, but he felt less viscerally present.

Gun used him hard. He fucked into his ass until Gil was gasping and clawing at the brick on instinct alone. He did this until his fingers bled. It hurt, a lot. He was left with splotches of blood on his body, wet lines of red smeared slick between his thighs, nail grooves ripping into his lower ribs, and the ragged scrape across his jaw that would still be there come Monday morning. _Fuck_.

As his vision blurred Gil was distantly aware of the drag and burn of friction, of skin giving and tearing, and grunts and groans of sex loud in his ears as Gun shoved himself inside his body in a steady, hard-paced rhythm. 

He trembled against the alley brick feeling the signs of his body beginning to crash on him. Between the labored breathing, not enough oxygen getting into his lungs, and black spots swimming in and out of an ever-narrowing sight he knew what was happening. The last 48 hours were coming back to bite him on the ass.

And then it was over. His vision became an indistinct gray as the world fell away from view, he was finally loosing consciousness and fast. His body had maxed out its energy levels and decided to turn out the lights. Gil Arroyo went willingly into the welcoming dark. 

**Author's Note:**

> Author Note: 
> 
> I tried my best but I have never written Prodigal Son characters. I know it's only so/so but I wanted to dabble in the Prodigal Son fandom.


End file.
